Daughter of Arkham
by cocoa85715
Summary: Arkham Asylum has never been a kind and nurturing place. It houses some of the most notorious or insane criminals to ever set foot in Gotham City. Even so, it's been my home my whole life. My name is Jaromira. And this is my story. (Rated for dark themes and gore, no pairings.)
1. Prologue

**Hey, this is a new story, a Batman fanfiction using my OC. **

**Enjoy, and first reviewer gets an excerpt of the next chapter! :D**

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**Prologue**

I've heard a lot of people, normal people, complain about how crazy their family life is. How their dads constantly act half their ages, or how their siblings constantly argue with them, or when they're watching Sunday night football and screaming at the television.

But in my honest opinion, most of their behavior is completely sane- normal, even. So why is it that behavior regarded as 'insane' is accepted by most of society? After all, they are being abnormal; they even admit it themselves. Why is it that only certain kinds of crazy people are locked up in these asylums? It's been proven time and time again that psychos aren't the only kind of killers, and sometimes the sane people are the most dangerous. I think that the sane people just don't want to admit it, so they lock away only the most insane.

They should really just shove all the crazies in asylums, instead of openly discriminating. Then again, not everyone grew up like I did.

As Cheshire Cat would say, _"We're all mad here."_

My name is Jaromira. A strange name for a stranger place, no? One of the staff members, a kind old nurse who gives me books every so often, told me that my name was Polish.

I did a little bit of research on Poland when she told me that, specifically on what the stereotypical Polish person looked like. Apparently, a Polish person is a blonde with blue eyes, and many of my sources agreed that their noses were rather large. A rather fitting description of me, correct? Well, sans the large nose part, of course. I don't think I have a huge nose…do I? Ah, but you cannot see me, I forgot about that. Terribly sorry.

I suppose you could say I look Polish. Pale wavy blonde hair that comes to my shoulders in thin wisps, pale blue eyes, extremely pale skin…I basically look like I was dropped in a vat of bleach, and the glaringly white uniform doesn't help that image, either. Then again, I might not be Polish; I might be German, Hispanic, French, or any ethnicity, really. I have no idea, and I probably will never find out, unless I build myself a time machine.

Okay, I know, I'm rambling…I'll just continue the story then.

As I said, my name is Jaromira. I've been living in Arkham Asylum (Yes, _the_ Arkham Asylum) for as long as I can remember. According to the staff here, I was about five months old when I was left on Arkham's doorstep, so that would make me about…twenty years old, if my calculations are correct. I don't know my exact birthday, though, so I may be completely off.

Since Arkham Asylum is technically a hospital, any child left on its doorstep instantly came under the care of the staff. Usually, of course, this would mean the child would get sent immediately to the nearest orphanage, but most children who get left on Arkham's doorstep get admitted as patients, and I was no exception. It was mostly because of Gotham's notorious foster care system, which was known for letting anyone take in a child, no questions asked. Admittedly, accepting innocent children into Arkham Asylum wasn't the best solution, but it was all they could do. The Arkham Children's Ward was created for these kids, and I lived in there until they believed I was eighteen, when they moved me to the adult's ward.

And so, I became a patient at Arkham Asylum, with no way of breaking free unless I could prove my own sanity, which would be quite difficult since I never speak. The hospital didn't have to take me in, yet they did, and for that I am extremely grateful. If they hadn't, I would be living on the streets, getting abused in a foster home, or dead. So despite the fact that I was labeled a loony without a fair trial, Arkham wasn't as bad as everyone made it out to be.

Food, water, a warm bed to sleep in, and free healthcare…what more could I ask for? The other patients…let's just say that since I stayed away from them, they stayed away from me. It was an unspoken deal, but a real one nonetheless. But as grateful as I was to Arkham for taking me in, I had been living basically the same routine for almost my whole life, and it was rather boring and incredibly repetitive.

But on one fateful autumn day, everything changed. Even now, I cannot decide whether the change was for better or worse.


	2. The Prince of Gotham Approaches

**Hey, this is the next chapter :D The prologue was basically introducing Jaromira, now we're getting into the story. **

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**Chapter One**

The day started off normally, I suppose. I woke up, got breakfast, and brought it back to my room to eat, since eating breakfast in the cafeteria wasn't mandatory for patients, excluding the high security, or Category Five, patients. I was a Category One, so I got a little more freedom during the day than the higher risk patients, but I still couldn't leave the building, or go anywhere without an escort.

After eating, I brought my plate back to the kitchen and made my way back to my room. For a couple of hours, all I did was read books I had already read before. Then, an orderly came into my room and told me that lunch was about to start. I got up and followed him to the cafeteria, where I got a plate of food-like substance, which I believed was chili, and sat down at my usual table in the corner to eat.

For a moment, I just stared. Was the goop…moving? Had the cafeteria workers really found the secret to creating life? Slowly, I moved my plastic fork toward it, wary of it rearing up and attacking me. Then…I poked it. And the chili creature, with a disgusting slurping sound, proceeded to rip my fork from my grasp and into it's disgusting depths, reminiscent to how quicksand sucks in anything that walks into it.

The air conditioning randomly came on, as it was inclined to do from time to time, and I was suddenly assaulted by a stench too horrible for words. Fighting the urge to gag, I quickly got up and dumped the disgusting creature in the garbage.

Well, if it was alive before, it was definitely dead now. With a sigh, I snatched an apple off someone's tray without them noticing, resigning myself to going hungry until dinner.

"Did you hear?" asked a man excitedly, sitting down across from his buddy, who looked not the least bit interested in what his friend had to say. Deciding to indulge in my eavesdropping side, I immediately pretended to be engrossed in the news bulletin board as I listened to their conversation.

"What?" snapped the other man, sounding irritated. "Bruce Wayne himself is coming here tomorrow!" squealed the first man excitedly, nearly jumping up and down in his seat.

"Really? Bruce Wayne? Coming here?" asked the second man, now sarcastic and disbelieving. "Really!" shrieked the other, doing a little dance in his seat. He must have some sort of hyperactivity disorder…

"How do you know? WHERE DID YOU GET THIS INFORMATION?" The second man yelled, eyes crazed as he almost jumped across the table, gripping the other man's shirt collar in his hands. Well, obviously that guy had severe paranoid schizophrenia. The hyper one rolled his eyes. "I didn't get it from the government, calm down." I hid a smile at the irony. "I got it from my therapist~" he sang, prying the paranoid one's hands off of him. The two quickly dissolved into an argument over whether or not the information was valid, and I quickly tuned out and took a thoughtful bite of the apple.

The info was almost undoubtedly correct, as the therapists had access to resources unavailable to the patients, such as news channels and the Internet. Even so, the news was rather surprising.

I smiled excitedly into my apple, wondering if I'd get a chance to meet the famed Prince of Gotham.


	3. A Doctor Called Scarecrow

**Here's the next chapter. :) In this, we meet Jaromira's psychiatrist...who should be VERY familiar to you. :D He's a very difficult character to write, let me tell you. Also, I hope you like the way I described him and his character and such...leave a review please! :D**

_Italics= Written (i.e., in a notebook, in a book, etc.)_

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**Chapter Two**

_**The Next Day**_

"Sorry I'm late, my last appointment ran a bit later than I expected." Said a male voice from behind me, entering the room as the heavy wooden door clicked shut with an audible snap. Startled, I whirled around in my uncomfortable plastic chair, almost sending it careening to the tiled floor. The tall doctor pushed his thick horn-rimmed glasses up his thin nose with a skeletal hand, holding a black suitcase in his other hand. The man looked almost comical as he sat down across from me, the chair nearly too small for his lanky arms and legs.

"So how are you today, Jaromira?" Asked Dr. Crane, brushing a stray curl of thick brown hair behind his ear as he set his suitcase down on his desk.

It was mandatory for all patients to have sessions with the various psychiatrists of Arkham. Since I was only a Category One patient, it was only necessary once a week.

This would be my second appointment with this psychiatrist, a man named Jonathan Crane. My last one had retired recently.

I shrugged in reply to his question, tilting one of my hands back and forth, indicating that I was fine, more or less. The doctor sighed at my nonverbal answer.

"Why do you keep up this mute act, Jaromira? I've seen you talk before, in videos of you as a child. Why doesn't the caged bird sing?" he asked, genuinely curious. I gave him a small smile, pulling out my notebook. I quickly flipped to one of the few blank pages and scribbled something down, before handing it over to him. Dr. Crane's rather colorless eyes darted across the page, and he looked at me with an amused grin.

"_The caged bird does not sing if she has a melody that hurts her own ears_." He read aloud, chuckling as he passed the old, tattered notebook back to me.

"But in all seriousness, though…why don't you speak?" Doctor Crane asked, this time without the caged bird metaphor.

I wrote down a quick answer and handed it back to him. "_I choose not to."_ The man read, looking up at me with confusion in his gaze. "Haven't you ever wanted to say something?" he asked, incredulous.

I shrugged and shook my head 'no'.

"Well why not?" He demanded, running a bony hand through his already messy hair in frustration.

I sighed and wrote my reply, erasing a few stray pencil marks before handing it to him. _"People tend to notice more things when their mouths are silent." _He read, giving me a puzzled glance.

"So…you're silent because you want to be more observant?" The doctor asked hesitantly, his tone tinged with disbelief. I shrugged and took my notebook when he handed it back to me. _"Not really." _I wrote, deciding that he was never going to believe that anyways. Might as well come clean and admit that I'm lying before he calls me out on it.

"You're changing your story a lot, Jaromira…" He said darkly.

The timer signaling the end of the session suddenly beeped, the mechanical alarm echoing like thunder through the silent office, startling us both from our thoughts.

"Looks like it's the end of our time here today." Doctor Crane stated, is usually open, expressive face strangely blank.

I nodded, grabbed my notebook, and walked out of his office as quickly as I could, feeling his eerie colorless eyes on me as I exited his office. I shivered as the heavy wooden door closed behind me.

I could see why the other patients called Jonathan Crane the Scarecrow now…


	4. Bruce Wayne and the Warden

**Here's the newest update...finally finished typing it. :D I hope you enjoy!**

**By the way...this is my longest chapter yet! On Microsoft Word, it took up seven pages! SEVEN! **

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Chapter Three

As soon as I came out of Doctor Crane's office, an orderly told me it was time for lunch. The orderly, who was a large beefy man, went ahead of me, gesturing for me to follow him. His hulking frame almost took up the entire hallway. Meekly, I fell into step behind him, smiling to myself.

Bruce Wayne was scheduled to come during lunch today.

As soon as we arrived at the cafeteria, the orderly walked off. I gave the man a polite smile and rushed inside.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the excited buzz that filled the room. The security guards, who were in their positions at the sides of the room, looked almost…impatient. Their normally stoic faces seemed strained, as if they were trying hard not to break out into excited grins. The lunch ladies were standing at their positions behind the counters, trading gossip. I could hear their girlish giggling as they cooed over a picture of Bruce Wayne.

The patients were whispering excitedly amongst themselves, each of them desperately hoping that the eccentric billionaire would somehow help them escape. That's what I first thought as well, when I heard the news. Then logic kicked in, as it always does, and I reminded myself that an important, rich man such as Bruce Wayne would never care about a bunch of crazies locked away from the world.

The money he donated to Arkham Asylum was probably just a political move; the more he looked like a charitable, philanthropic man, the more popularity he gained in the eyes of the public.

Ridding myself of these distracting thoughts, I grabbed a tray, silently dreading whatever horrible concoction the lunch ladies had cooked up this time. Thankfully, it wasn't the chili again; today's dish was pizza, one of the only meals I could stand.

Sure, it tasted like cardboard dipped in tomato sauce, but at least it never tried to eat me.

Grabbing a stiff slice of pizza, I sat down at the table in the far corner of the room, the one I usually claimed as my own during mealtimes.

All movement in the cafeteria came to a sudden halt, every person frozen where they stood as they watched Bruce Wayne walk in. The man looked every inch the withdrawn billionaire the world knew him as, with a perfectly pressed business suit and immaculate dark brown hair. He looked around for a long moment before he spotted the Warden and strode over to him.

Their almost inaudible whispers were the only noise in the now silent cafeteria. Then, like old friends, they sat down together at a random table and began to catch up.

Slowly, the cafeteria melted back into its usual controlled chaos, though it seemed slightly muted, and everyone was throwing glances at the famous man.

I released a small smile and slowly finished off my slice of pizza. It wouldn't hurt, I decided, to be one of the last ones leaving.

Taking out my well-used sketchpad, I began to slowly draw a picture of Bruce Wayne and the Warden in the middle of a conversation, the billionaire's smile wide and genuine as the Warden told him a funny story.

My brows furrowed in thought as I drew his eyes. I looked up at the billionaire, noticing that even as he laughed, he had a sad glint in his eyes. I carefully penciled that into the drawing, making sure it wasn't noticeable unless you were looking for it.

I glanced back up again, startled to notice that he was staring right back at me, his green eyes shining in curiosity as he tried to angle himself to see what I was drawing. Feeling a blush spread rapidly across my face, I quickly went back to my doodling. Currently, I was shading everything in, taking note of the shadows the fluorescent lights created.

Gradually, the cafeteria began to empty, and I could feel Bruce Wayne's eyes on me more and more. Occasionally, the Warden would look at me, but it was only the cursory passing glance, as I was the only patient left in the cafeteria.

As I was drawing a background of empty tables and abandoned plates of food, a smooth baritone voice suddenly cut through my reverie.

"You have a lot of talent in drawing." He commented, scaring me half to death in the process. My hand skittered across the page, accidentally marking a deep black line straight through the Warden's nose. I sighed and carefully erased the pointy appendage, deciding that the Warden probably wouldn't like a line anywhere on his person.

"Sorry if I startled you." Apologized the man, sounding rather sheepish.

Finally, I looked up at him, ready to tell him to leave me alone- and I swear my heart almost stopped.

For a couple of seconds, all I could do was stare at him, resisting the sudden urge to pinch myself.

Did I somehow fall asleep and go to Wonderland?

Was this really Bruce Wayne, known worldwide as a billionaire playboy, talking to me, or was this some sort of bizarre alternate universe?

Then, he spoke to me (_again!_) and I knew that this was no dream, no strange parallel dimension. This was real life.

And in real life, Bruce Wayne was talking to me- and all I was doing was gaping at him like a fish with a mental disorder.

"Are you alright, Miss?" He asked, sounding strangely concerned.

I felt myself flush scarlet, and I quickly flipped to a new page in my notebook, hoping that he didn't see my drawing of him. I scribbled something onto the page and handed it shyly to him.

Amused (probably laughing at me), he took it from my hands and read it out loud. _"I'm sorry…I was rather star struck for a few moments."_ He read, and he let out a quiet laugh. "Don't worry, it happens more often than you might think." He assured me.

I smiled timidly at him and gestured for him to give me my notebook back.

"So, you obviously know my name, but I don't know yours." Bruce said with a grin as he handed the notebook to me.

I felt my face heat up, and I was certain that my face was beet red. I wrote my name on the paper before I turned it around so that he could read it.

"Jaromira? Is that your name?" The billionaire asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. With a small amused smile, I turned the notebook around again to write down the correct way to say it. I flipped it once again, and he leaned over to read it. "Yah-RO-meer-uh? So is that how you pronounce it?" Smiling brightly, I nodded, drawing a little arrow from the pronunciation to where I had written my name earlier.

"So…can I see what you were drawing earlier, Jaromira? I didn't get a good look at it earlier." Requested Bruce, staring at my notebook as though if he looked hard enough, he could see what was drawn in it.

Instantly, nervousness began to gnaw at my insides.

I wanted to show him the picture, I really did…he's the first person I've connected with in years. I don't want to alienate Bruce by refusing to show him a simple drawing.

And yet…if I did show him…he'd think I'm some sort of stalker. He might call the police…or tell the doctors, which would probably get me prescribed on some strong medication, which I certainly didn't want.

"Jaromira?" Bruce asked, interrupting my internal debate with his concerned question. Worry shined in his green eyes.

My resolve quickly dissolved into dust, and with a sigh, I flipped through the notebook until I found my sketch. I handed it to him so that he could see it, and I waited.

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, he was silent. I chewed my lip anxiously, waiting for him to call security, or to call me a stalker and walk away.

"Well…" he started, sounding like he was at a loss for words.

The Warden suddenly came striding into the room from the direction of the men's bathroom, startling us both.

"Really, Bruce?" The tall, muscular man asked exasperatedly, his huge, bushy mustache slightly muffling his deep voice. "I leave you alone for five minutes at the most and you're already associating with them?" The Warden said disdainfully.

I wanted to tell him that he was probably gone for more like ten or fifteen minutes, but I didn't, instead silently taking my notebook back from Bruce and closing it, not wanting the Warden to see the drawing.

I knew what was coming next.

"And you!" the Warden spat, turning toward me with annoyance in his dark eyes.

So it begins...

"Patient 24601!" he shouted. Oh, how I loathed the number that replaced my name and made me less than human. Patient numbers weren't used often, only during roll call, or when people who didn't know the patient's name tried to get their attention. Or, as in this case, the patient number was also used condescendingly.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bruce's green eyes flicker between the Warden and I.

"Shouldn't you be in your quarters, Patient 24601? Lunch hour has been over for almost twenty minutes!" The Warden said sternly. I stared at him for a few moments before I turned around and silently made my way from the cafeteria. Now that she's gone, let's talk some more about your donation to Arkham Asylum.." The Warden said loudly when I was almost to the door.

I could feel Bruce's eyes on my back, but I didn't turn around, nor did I slow down. I walked out the door, and I never looked back.

Sometimes, I wish I did.

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**Writing the Warden made me mad. He's such a jerk! o_o **

**Can anyone guess where I got the number 24601? **

**The first who answers correctly gets an except to the next chapter. :D **


	5. The Riot

**Hello, all my lovely readers! I love you all, especially those of you that reviewed or commented. :) You guys are either going to love this chapter or hate it…I don't going to be any middle ground.**

**Enjoy, and remember to respond! Reader response makes me very happy, not to mention more willing to write. ;)**

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Ah, group therapy sessions. I prefer to think of them as 'those wasted hours of my life I'll never be able to get back', but group therapy session is still a good term to use.

Why do they have group therapy the day after individual therapy? They say it has something to do with it being more effective, but I think they just said that to make themselves feel better.

Granted, I'd probably be less adverse to these sessions if they happened later than four o'clock in the freaking morning.

Alas, the life of a crazy person is never easy.

When I shuffled sleepily into the room, all the other patients were already seated in the circle of chairs in the center of the room and talking quietly amongst themselves. Unnoticed, I took a seat and waited for the therapist to arrive.

On my right sat a man who looked like he had more muscle than skin, and had tattoo sleeves running up his arms depicting gruesome scenes.

For the record, I sat as far away from him as possible without falling off the chair. The guy looked like he could break me in half and use me as a toothpick!

On my right, which was the chair in the circle facing the door, was empty. That seat was always saved for the therapist, who was late. The working ethic in Arkham Asylum is so inspiring, isn't it? (Note the sarcasm.)

Group therapy and individual therapy are practically the only times we're not under video surveillance, so all the other patients always take full advantage of these times and talk about whatever the heck they want.

"You guys hear about that new guy?" Asked the man sitting next to me, his voice such a deep bass that I could have sworn that it shook the floor.

"Yeah, he's the one that killed Bobby and Mac with the microwave his first week here, right?" Asked an older woman, who looked about fifty, with tangled hair and shaking hands.

I remembered hearing about that; apparently ten of the Fivers, or patients in Category Five, died in the resulting explosion. The cafeteria was closed for days after that, and patients were never allowed in the kitchen.

"Yeah, well I heard he's planning a riot." Replied the overly muscular man, crossing his huge tattooed arms.

A really skinny short blonde guy, who was sitting across from me, snorted in contempt. "Yeah, right. How the hell are you even supposed to _plan _a riot, anyways?" He asked dubiously. Silently, I agreed with him. A riot could never be planned; it was simply impossible. They just…well…happened. There really was no other explanation for it.

The patients' conversation came to a grinding halt when the therapist came in. Silence filled the room, save for the counselor's loud footsteps, and the other patients gave each other nervous looks. The therapist, unaware of the room's silence, took his seat right next to mine, and began the session with his usual greeting.

"Good morning, friends!" He said. The man was freakishly cheerful for this early in the morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Chillingwood." The whole group chorused, their voices rather lifeless.

Mr. Chillingwood sent us his usual plastic smile. "At least you guys remembered that I don't like being called by my first name." he said jovially, pretending to shiver. "I don't know _what _my parents were thinking when they decided to call me Terrence, if they were thinking at all." The therapist joked. The group fell into awkward silence when no one laughed.

"Wow, tough crowd." The man muttered, before clearing his throat. "Anyways, let's all just take turns telling everyone how our lives have been, shall we? Horace, how about you start us off?" Mr. Chillingwood said, turning toward the man sitting on the other side of him. I gave a silent sigh of relief. At least he didn't pick me first.

"My life has been fine." Horace said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Not even a second later, snores began coming from his direction.

One by one, everyone began sharing their 'feelings', though in reality it was more like everybody making fun of Mr. Chillingwood's ridiculous question.

At my turn, all I did was shrug, and the therapist went on to the next part of our 'treatment'. Truthfully, I don't think he even looked up at me. All he did is call my name as he looked over a giant stack of papers.

After our friendship circle came to a close, I slipped away from the mass of people heading to breakfast and went to my room.

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**That Night**

I fought down the urge to sneeze as I inhaled the dusty air, hoping that there weren't any spiders, or worse cockroaches, under my bed. Did the janitors even _clean_ under here? Because it seemed like I was literally drowning in dust, and it wasn't a very fun experience, to put it lightly.

Then, footsteps came closer to my hiding place, and all thoughts of comfort flew from my mind.

I froze, hardly breathing in the musty air as the heavy footsteps came closer and closer.

_Please don't look under the bed, PLEASE don't look under the bed…_

I could just barely see his feet, which appeared to be clad in dark leather business shoes. Rather expensive for an Arkham Asylum patient, as I assumed the man was one. The evil cackling that echoed from outside my door as he tried to shove his way into my room was enough of a hint that he was an insane person.

The man had been trying to enter my room for a long time, but luckily I had managed to stall him by scattering all my heaviest books in front of the door. However, he had gotten the door to open with little trouble, but it gave me enough time to hide.

What would you do in this situation?

The riot was still raging outside my room, and from the sounds coming from out there, it was getting worse, so I couldn't run.

Fight? Oh please, I'm too scrawny to put up much of a fight. Besides, from the way he walked and the size of his feet, he was a tall, strong man. I'd never be able to throw a punch before he'd take me down.

So, really, the only option was to hide. I did choose a rather obvious hiding place, but the only things in my room were a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a tiny bookshelf that barely came up to my knees. And considering that I'm incredibly short, it's not very tall at all. I had nowhere else to hide other than under my bed.

Then again, I had never been very good at hiding. I always got caught because I tended to do the stupidest things.

So really, I should have expected something like this to happen.

Remember that sneeze I had suppressed earlier?

Well, it came back.

With a vengeance.

My violent sneeze was impossibly loud in the now silent room, and I saw his feet freeze midstep as it echoed.

I sighed. Why did I even bother hiding?

I heard muffled shuffling come from his direction, and before I knew what was happening, a gloved hand roughly gripped my arm and yanked on it, attempting to pull me out from under my bed. He almost succeeded in doing so, but thankfully I managed to reach out and take hold of the nearest object, which happened to be the bed frame. The rough, rusted metal dug painfully into the palm of my hand, and I flinched in pain as a particularly harsh tug nearly ripped my arm from its socket and drew blood from the hand gripping the bed.

I watched in horrified fascination as a few droplets of my scarlet blood dripped to the dusty tile floor. Idly, I wondered whether or not I'd get Tetanus from the rusty metal digging into the open wound on my hand, which I admit was absolutely ridiculous to be thinking of in such a dangerous situation, but I always tended to have random thoughts at the most inappropriate moments.

Focusing back on reality, I suddenly noticed that our short game of tug-of-war had ended with him releasing me, and I mentally cheered in victory, though I knew it couldn't possibly be over. After all, I hadn't heard him leave the room.

"Hi." Said a male voice, right next to my ear. I tried not to scream in surprise (not to mention terror) and attempted to turn around quickly, only to end up banging my head on the bed frame, bruising my funny bone (which really wasn't very funny at all), and finding my face inches away from…a clown's face? No, wait, that was just makeup.

Immediately after realizing how close I was to him, I scrambled backwards as quickly as I could, only to bang my head on the accursed bed frame _again_.

For a second, I think I literally saw tweeting birds flying around my head, just like in old cartoons. The hallucination quickly dissipated, however.

The clown man grinned, letting out a high-pitched cackle that rang in my ears and sent chills up my spine. "Did I _scare_ you?" He asked gleefully.

Deciding that honesty was probably the best policy in this situation, I nodded. The clown clapped happily, cackling in that hair-raising way once more. "Ooh, I finally found someone who _admits_ it!" He giggled, sounding overjoyed.

I raised an eyebrow. Well, he was…different, I suppose. He had the strangest tendency to put emphasis on random words, but at least he wasn't attacking me.

Though perhaps I was drawing conclusions too quickly, because I could literally find twenty knives on him, even in the dim lighting, and I wasn't even _trying_. Noticing that I was looking at his knives, he grinned. "Do 'ya like my knives?" He asked, sounding like a child with a new toy he wanted to show off.

Hesitantly, I nodded, not wanting to anger him or send him into some sort of psychotic episode. (Then again, he probably already suffered a psychotic break…)

He took out a knife from the inside pocket of his purple suit jacket, pulling me closer. "See how _shiny_ it is?" he asked, completely mesmerized by the small, deadly-looking object that gleamed slightly in the dusty air.

I nodded again, my movements jerky and nervous. Who wouldn't be terrified, especially around such a weapon, wielded by an insane clown man, no less?

"Come on, I need to get out of here before Batsy catches wind of my riot!" The clown exclaimed with another bout of insane laughter as he slid out from under my bed, dragging me with him. I barely managed to grab my notebook before the clown man began tugging me behind him by the arm.

I wondered, for a moment, if I'd ever get back to the relative safety of my room in Arkham Asylum.

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**Three guesses as to who the clown man is, and the first two don't count.**

**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, I know I enjoyed writing it. :) Sorry it took so long, by the way. I'm currently writing the sequel, and it's extremely difficult to have your mind in two different places in the same story at the same time.**


	6. A Bloody Smile

**Hello, this is my new chapter! :D Yeah, remember how this story has 'Horror' for one of the genres? This is what gets the ball rolling. Remember to review!**

**To anonymous reviewer, the joker fan: Yes, I got that number from Les Miserables. :) And I'm sorry for any spelling mistakes in my stories too...cuz I'm only 15. :(**

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**Chapter Five**

If two words could describe the clown that was dragging me behind him, they would be 'playfully psychotic'.

I'm not a fashion expert or anything, but only a person with mental problems would wear a suit that hideous shade of purple.

Plus, the clown was like a fun-loving little boy in a man's body…except he'd probably be one of those boys who enjoy torturing small animals.

Unfortunately, I think I was considered the small animal in that situation.

The way Mr. Clown (the name I had mentally dubbed him) was talking nonstop about rather disturbing things, like a kid who couldn't keep his mouth shut, certainly didn't help that image. He was talking about all the little _noises _people make when he uses a knife rather than a gun to kill them. The vivid images he put in my head grew more and more grotesque with every word that came from his crimson painted lips.

It's not like I wanted to listen to these shiver-inducing stories, but his iron grip on my arm made escape impossible. At times like these, I wish I had more physical strength.

I was rather thankful for the incessant running, however. Because from the few glimpses I had of the still ongoing riot, I could tell it was a bloodbath. Bodies of guards in full riot gear as well as the mutilated bodies of hospital patients were thrown across the floor like ragdolls, and scorch marks marred the usually pristine white walls, probably caused by the numerous bombs I heard go off earlier. Various messages of the obscene variety were written on the walls in letters of blood. From what I could see, nothing was spared from the violence.

Suddenly feeling the gazes of the survivors on me, I shrunk in on myself, trying to hide behind Mr. Clown's much larger frame. The suggestive leers from the male patients made my skin crawl in revulsion, and I dodged around their grabbing hands as much as I could. Thankfully, my escort was a very intimidating man, and most of them backed away from him and left me alone. However, 'most of them' was the operative phrase in that sentence. These men were desperate for any female attention, just like addicts.

The female population of Arkham Asylum was very low, for reasons I dare not think about.

Right in front of the main entrance, Mr. Clown came to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop was so unexpected, I slammed face first into his back at full speed, which sent me crashing backwards painfully onto the white tiled floor. The collision only made the clown slightly unsteady on his feet, though he quickly righted himself.

By then, I was slightly envious of his innate sense of balance.

I slowly got up, only to almost crash back onto the floor as a wave of dizziness took me by surprise. I gently felt the lump on the back of my head, wincing as my hand came away with warm, sticky blood. I certainly had a concussion now, if not something worse. Moving my head upwards slowly, I froze when I caught sight of what made Mr. Clown stop in his tracks.

It just _had _to be the Batman, didn't it? Wonderful. Fate really did have it in for me.

Of course I had heard many things regarding the imposing figure in front of me. Who hadn't? The Batman was all anyone could talk about back then.

Rumor had it that the Batman was a ruthless vigilante who struck down anyone he thought was committing a crime, even if the people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had even heard rumors about the masked man going after anyone who opposed him.

Granted, I had gotten the information from the rumor mill of Arkham Asylum, but…still. Gossip tends to have an ounce of truth in it, doesn't it?

"Why, hello, Batsy!" Haven't seen you in a while." Mr. Clown said pleasantly. I could barely see Batman's eyes narrow in suspicion behind his intimidating mask. "Who are you?" The vigilante asked, his voice gravelly and slightly distorted. I blinked in surprise.

That was an attempt to disguise his voice, if I was correct. That implied he had a widely recognizable voice, which would mean…was the man behind the mask famous? I was so caught up in my own thoughts; I barely caught Mr. Clown's reply.

"Don't you recognize me, Batsy?" He asked, pouting. The Batman did not react, though my eyes flickered between the two men in shock. Did they know each other?

"I'm the Joker, of course!" Mr. Clown exclaimed, as though everyone should know that by now. So that was his real name. The Joker.

"Never heard of you." The masked vigilante deadpanned.

The Joker giggled, his red painted mouth spreading into a maniacal grin, which pulled on his scars grotesquely. I shuddered, though I tried to hide it. The lines carved into his face stretched his grin into the macabre shadow of a happy smile. And with the added effect of his clown makeup, he seemed almost hauntingly ethereal.

I was suddenly startled from my thoughts when I realized that the Joker was looking at me from the corner of his eyes, the psychotic smile still stretching across his face. The…_unhinged _light in his dark eyes had my stomach wrenching in fear, and I could barely breathe as he began to walk backwards toward me.

"Have you _met _my new friend, Batsy?" The clown asked the vigilante. I tried to scramble away from him, my heart pounding so loudly I wondered whether or not they could hear it. As soon as I started moving, however, my head exploded in pain, and my movement screeched to a halt as I gripped my throbbing head.

Sometimes, I think that I had actually blacked out for a second or two, because when the dark spots cleared from my vision, I realized that the Joker was holding me in his arms, my back against his chest in the parody of a loving embrace, though the bruising grip on my wrists shattered that image.

I immediately began to struggle to escape the cage that was his arms, but my efforts were weak and slow due to blood loss and exhaustion, and he held onto me easily. "Isn't she the _cutest_?" The Joker asked, pinching one of my cheeks with a gloved hand, while holding both my wrists with his other hand.

I did the only thing I could think of in that situation- I bit down as hard as I could on his gloved finger.

He growled in pain and tried to jerk his hand away, but my teeth remained clenched on his finger. I flinched when the metallic taste of his blood flooded into my mouth; I had ripped the protective cloth of his black gloves, and my teeth had sunken into his flesh. Once again he tugged, but this time the only thing left in my jaws was his ripped glove, which I promptly spat out, along with a mouthful of his blood.

His hand, I observed, had many scars and burn marks, and on his index finger there were deep bite marks where I bit him, and they were still bleeding profusely.

The smell of his blood in the air and the taste still in my mouth had my stomach rebelling against me as I fought down the urge to throw up the little I had eaten.

His blood was still dripping from my teeth and down my chin…

I looked up to find the Joker looming far above me, and I mentally cursed my diminutive height as he leaned closer, a Cheshire cat grin spread menacingly across his scarred face. "Aren't you _cute_?" He snarled, wrapping my upper arm in an iron grip and dragging me closer to him. I sent a pleading glance to Batman, hoping that he'd step in and help me, but when he started forward, the Joker raised his other hand, showing the vigilante something in his hand, though I couldn't see it from this angle. Batman came to a stop, and looked at me with worried eyes.

_Gee, thanks for the help, Batman! Way to save a damsel in distress!_

"Turn your pretty little eyes over here, darling." The Joker said, forcibly taking my chin and jerking my head around to face his scarred face. I nearly cried out in pain, but I managed to stop myself.

His ever-present grin seemed to widen, though now it seemed almost…malicious. "You know what?" The clown asked, the deranged glint in his dark eyes flashing dangerously, like light reflecting off a loaded gun.

The Joker yanked me even closer, so fast my head started to throb, and he raised his injured hand, his blood shining in the fluorescent lights. Crimson still wept from the wound I had inflicted, and it didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

I flinched back, expecting him to snap my neck with a flick of his wrist, slap me, even strangle me; I expected anything but what came next.

"You really need to _smile_ more!" He cackled. He smeared the blood still flowing from his finger across my lips, and then painted a line of crimson upward from both corners of my mouth. The amount of concentration etched into his countenance both surprised and terrified me; it was like watching an artist creating a work of art.

As he smeared the blood across my face, I couldn't help but shiver violently at his touch, my breaths coming out in shuddering gasps. I closed my eyes.

_Please, let this nightmare end. Let it all be a dream I'll forget with the arrival of the morning sun. _

"Now you have a _smile_ just like mine!" The Joker declared proudly when he was finally through with his work. Slowly, with a shaking hand, I pressed my fingers gently against my face.

A bloody smile made through suffering, just like his. Identical twins, yet as different as night from day.

"You look so _pretty_ in red, darling!" The Joker cooed, before shoving me away from him, making me stumble backwards into Batman, who gently grasped my arm to keep me from falling again.

_Well, at least he's a gentleman…no points earned in the 'saving damsels in distress' department, though._

The Clown Prince's psychotic grin only increased in volume when he noticed the Batman catch me. "Take good care of her for me, _Batsy_!" He called, giggling. "After all, I wouldn't want to _lose _my new playmate!" The clown cackled.

I could feel Batman's muscles tighten in anger beneath his Kevlar jumpsuit, but the masked vigilante didn't say a word.

"However…" The Joker muttered, trailing off thoughtfully as he turned his gaze toward me. "You're going to need something to remember me by, cutie!" He exclaimed cheerfully, and I shivered in revulsion at the horrible pet name he had given me.

_Wait…didn't he say he'd give me something to remember him by? Wouldn't the macabre smile now drying on my face be enough?_

But whatever I was expecting him to give me, I certainly didn't expect him to pull out what looked like an aerosol can…and spray me in the face with it.

And for the first time in many years, I finally made a sound.

My terrified screams echoed off the asylum's walls as I was pulled into the darkness of my own mind.

* * *

**Cruelest. Cliffhanger. Ever.**

**Gosh, I'm evil.**


	7. Drowning

**Hey, guys! Sorry about the long wait, I decided to try out a new writing style for this chapter, and it was giving me a lot of trouble, but I finally finished! :D**

**Yes, this chapter is supposed to be confusing. It's supposed to be choppy. She's dreaming, and she's terrified; do you expect to come up with complete, logical sentences in this situation? **

The normal text means present tense and first person.

Italics_ means past tense and second person_**.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains drug-induced hallucinations, dark themes, gore, and blood.**

* * *

It's so dark.

_And it was so cold._

Red eyes are glaring at me from the shadows, their crimson gazes full of rage.

_The darkness…it was closing in on you…surrounding you…trapping you…_

The frigid air…it was sending icy waves of agony through my body…they're stabbing my throat…choking me…every time I breathe in I inhale more and more ice…it's freezing me from the inside out!

"_Please, oh God please, let it end! Make it stop, I'm begging you, HELP ME!" You screamed, but no one was coming to help you. No one cared enough._

I'm trying to scream for someone, _anyone_, but I can't. The ice…it's crawling into my lungs…it feels like cold fire and pain and…oh God, the ice…it's making me into an ice sculpture.

_You shouldn't be able to see…the ice…it's frozen your eyes open, wide with terror._

The glowing, psychotic crimson eyes…they're still glaring at me, with a glint of something broken…that can't be fixed.

_Shattered like broken glass, they stare. "You're gonna become just like us, you know. We're going to watch the tears overflow, leave you to die in the snow, and there you'll lay evermore…a broken doll without a home." They whispered and yelled at you at the same time._

I can't look away, I can't run and hide…they won't let me. WHY WON'T THEY LET ME?

_Their clawed, rotting hands…they were reaching for you… "Come with us, don't be blue, we would never hurt you…come with us…" They crooned as they tore at your frozen neck, at your ice-covered heart._

Wait…what's that I hear? It's vague, but I think I can make it out…it's the sound of someone screaming and crying and laughing…a young woman, I think. I hope she's okay, or at least better off than I am…

_You screamed in pure, animalistic terror, and laughed psychotically…like clowns and bloody smiles, like dark, unhinged eyes. "DON'T MAKE ME GO WITH THEM! Please, God, if you're up there, don't make me go with them..." You screamed and giggled and sobbed and…_

It's so dark.

_And it was so cold._

I was suddenly collapsing, curling up on my side on the cold floor as my quiet sobbing filled the silent air.

_Everything stopped as tears of agony flowed down your face; even time itself came to a halt._

The shadows were only shadows…no longer did gleaming, broken scarlet eyes glower at me from their black depths.

_The clawed hands…they disappeared as if they never clawed at you in the first place._

The frost began melting, and with a blink of my eyes, it was gone, leaving only the pleasant chill of the tiled floor beneath me.

_And the only thing you could do was fold yourself into the fetal position, rocking yourself gently back and forth as sobs ripped through your body. _

What's that sound? I can barely make it out, but it sounds like there's some sort of liquid running down the walls. I can smell iron, too. I wonder what that is…

_You clamped shaking hands over terrified eyes, not wanting to see what was coming next, even as the boiling, burning liquid began to swirl around your ankles, which sent bolts of pain shooting up your legs._

The liquid…I don't know what it is, but it's thicker than water, and it's steadily rising. Now, it's reaching my chest, and I'm sitting down!

_Reluctantly, you lifted your hands from your eyes._

I can hear the woman screaming in terror…I hope she's not hurt…

_Blood rushed down every wall of the room, dripping from the crevice between the roof and the walls in an endless river of scarlet._

Oh God…my legs…they hurt so much…why do they cause me so much pain? I don't understand…why are you hurting me?

_You stood up and watched as steam curled off your scorched skin in wispy tendrils._

I'm wading my way over to the door, the boiling lake of blood beginning to burn holes through my clothes.

_The sickening smell of blood and burning flesh reached your nose, and you could barely breathe as the scent nearly overwhelmed you._

The pain is unbearable.

_The burning blood reached your muscles, scorching the sensitive tissue as your blood began to join the lake. Before your eyes, a white, glowing face with dark black holes where the eyes were supposed to be and a red smile materialized next to you. Green smoke wafted around the face, giving it the face long, wavy green hair. You were terrified by this ethereal face with the psychotic grin, so you ran even faster toward the exit._

Wait…why am I running from that nice, smiling face…he looks so kind with that benevolent smile! But…I can't control it…I can't control my own body! Why can't I move myself? Who's controlling me?

_You lift a hand to try to open the door, and freeze in horror as the blood finally closed over your head. The thin, delicate bones of your hand scorched black, stared back at you. Bits of flesh still clung to the charred bones, and from one of the pieces, a long, pale strip of burned skin hung, rippling in the current of the lake of burning blood._

I heard an inhuman scream as I was consumed fully by the room of gore.

_Drowning._

_Falling._

_Scorching. _

_Smiling._

_Breaking, but you're already broken, aren't you?_

And all I knew was darkness.

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**I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Please review, and tell me what you think of this new style I came up with, because this is gonna be the only time I ever use it.**

**Au revoir!**


	8. Awakening

**Hey, guys! Long time no see, huh? Sorry for the late update. Honestly, at first, I was really busy over the summer, but after awhile, it just turned into plain procrastination on my part. I apologize for that.**

**The fact that I only got TWO reviews last chapter...I won't deny that it made me a little depressed. Are you guys losing interest in this, or did you just not like the last chapter? I tried out a new writing style last time, and I really needed feedback on it. **

**IMPORTANT: IF YOU DID NOT READ THE LAST CHAPTER, PLEASE READ IT BEFORE THIS ONE. IT'S REQUIRED TO UNDERSTAND WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THIS CHAPTER.**

**To my faithful reviewers ICan'tThinkOfACleverUsername and El Ohkin, I love you guys. You're the best. :) **

**WARNING:**** This chapter is rated PG-13 for minor use of language and disturbing themes, though only implied. (See how many you can find! I only put two in there, so it should be simple.)**

* * *

I woke up unable to scream, my throat feeling like I had swallowed a desert. My head was pounding as if my brain was bashing itself against my skull, trying to escape. The only noise I could make was the tiniest squeak of pain, tears dripping silently down my face.

Nervously, I examined my hands, searching for any possible flaw, but I found none. Not even a paper cut, which I got all too often, marred the pale skin stretched over my skeletal fingers. Still, the image of my mutilated hands was burned into my retinas. Sighing, I buried my hands into the soft white sheets. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose.

Wait. Soft white sheets. Arkham didn't have soft sheets; they felt more like sandpaper, to be honest. They were also stained yellow from age.

Either Arkham got new bedding, which was unlikely, as I had been sleeping with the same sheets since I was old enough to sleep in a bed…or I wasn't in Arkham. _But if I wasn't in Arkham Asylum, then where the hell was I?_

The most logical thing to do, I supposed, was to take a look around. To the right of me was a nightstand, and on it were my notebook, sketchbook, and a sharpened pencil. Also, there was a chair and a small table. All the furniture was made of dark wood and looked incredibly expensive, and the carpet was a soft cream.

Of course, the first thing I noticed when I looked to my left, towards the door, was the creepy old man watching me from the doorway.

Immediately, I scrambled backwards, letting out another tiny squeak as I tried to gather the soft, fluffy blankets higher around my neck. I felt more exposed than I ever had before in a t-shirt and jeans, which I realized with a start _were not actually mine._

I felt my face heat up, both mortified and enraged at the thought of this freaking _pervert_ of an old man changing my clothes while I was unconscious.

Feeling defenseless, I grabbed the closest object I could throw at him. The object happened to be a huge fluffy white pillow, and I brandished it threateningly over my head.

"_One step closer and I throw this at you." _I told him with my eyes.

The man only smiled at me in a benevolent manner, his clear blue eyes showing amusement. I suppose his smile was an attempt to put me at ease, but it failed miserably. It only unnerved me more. I proceeded to throw the pillow at him as he took another step into the room.

I only noticed he was holding a tray full of food when it was too late.

I watched in what seemed like slow motion as the pillow slammed into his face. Being a rather ineffective weapon, it merely bounced off of him and hit the floor with a soft, muted thump. The impact left him startled, but unharmed.

The effect the projectile had on the food on the tray, however, was a different story, and the effects were immediate.

The pillow's collision sent sticky, syrup-coated pancakes everywhere, crispy strips of bacon plummeting to the floor, and orange juice sailing into his face and dripping into his rather expensive-looking suit.

All was silent for a moment. The only sound in the room was the quiet dripping of the orange juice as it trickled in tiny streams of gold from his soaked white hair.

"Well," the old man began, pulling out a silk light blue handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and wiping his dripping face, "I'm guessing you don't want breakfast, then?" he asked dryly.

I felt my breath come out in short, unsteady gasps as he walked closer to me, his large frame towering over mine. I scrambled backwards, gulping when my back it the bed's headboard.

_Nowhere to run._

I shuddered when I felt phantom gloved hands lock around my wrists, and I could vaguely hear the faded echo of psychotic laughter I'd never be able to forget. The sky blue eyes of the old man flickered black, and his kind smile turned demonic. The evil grin stretched wider and wider as scars carved themselves across his face. Before my eyes, the old man's short snow white hair dyed itself a brilliant green, and grew in lank, greasy tendrils until it stopped at just below his jawline.

_The Joker._

The echo of his insane laughter got louder and louder and _louder_, until it was pounding in my head like a drumbeat, and I was shaking and shivering and trembling and…

Footsteps. I heard footsteps. But…why were they moving away from me? Reluctantly, I cracked my eyes open, and I was met with the terrifying sight of the Joker's maniacal grin. The clown's dark glare was intimidating, even from the foot of the rather large king sized bed.

He opened his mouth to speak, and I violently flinched backwards, expecting him to greet me with a ridiculous pet name and the malicious smile that seemed to be forever glued to his face.

"Calm down." said the Joker, his voice soft and his accent British, though the commanding tone in his words was impossible to miss. Since when was the Joker British? I couldn't remember…

I blinked rapidly, feeling rather lightheaded as my breaths came faster and faster. It felt as if someone was choking me; my lungs couldn't seem to get enough air.

_Was the clown smothering me?_

At the thought, my hands flew to my throat and chest, as if they were searching for his choking hands. Though they found nothing, the sensation still persisted, and my eyes widened in terror. _How was he doing this?_

"Deep breaths, try to focus on taking deep breaths." came the Joker's soft voice, the accent strangely soothing.

_In. _

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

I wasn't in Arkham anymore.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

The Joker wasn't British.

_In._

The Joker wasn't in the room with me.

_Out._

Immediately after that revelation, the dark spots that had begun to cloud my vision slowly ebbed, and the comforting feeling of being in control of my own body returned once more.

I was still shaking, but that was okay…right?

Eventually, I gathered the courage to open my eyes, and watched as the apparition of the Joker melted off the elderly man like paint washes off in water.

Gloomily, I realized that he must've helped me through…whatever that was, and the only thing I had done for him was throw a pillow at him like a petulant child. Not to mention, I spilled the large breakfast he probably made himself. The floor was carpet as well, so it would undoubtedly stain.

I felt guilt stain my face a light shade of red, and I was unable to meet the man's kind smile and warm blue eyes.

"Better now, miss?" he asked, sounding concerned.

His concern was touching. Ironically, his worry for me only made me feel even more ashamed.

In answer to his question, I nodded, staring at my hands. They were still wrapped in the soft white sheets.

I heard the elderly man chuckle and felt the bed sink slightly as he sat down on the edge of it.

Glancing at him shyly, I reached for my notebook. As soon as I was holding the comfortingly familiar object, I flipped it open to a blank page and carefully wrote out a short apology for throwing the pillow at him. My hands were shaking, so it was hard to read, but it was still legible (hopefully) so I handed it to him. He accepted the

"All is forgiven, Miss. You were scared. And frankly, that's what I would have done in your situation as well. However, I probably would've grabbed the lamp instead." answered the gentleman, gesturing toward the old fashioned lamp sitting on the nightstand.

I felt a blush heat up my face, and I stared down at my hands. _How did I not think of that?_

The man chuckled before handing the notebook back to me. Just as I was about to write a reply, he placed a wrinkled, calloused hand over the page. I looked up at him in confusion, but he only smiled at me in a mysterious way and lifted both his hands, so they were in the air in front of him.

**[**I am fluent in American Sign Language, if you prefer to speak that way.**] **He signed, a soft smile playing on his lips. It took me a moment to register his hand movements, as I was used to only reading my own hands while practicing in front of a mirror, but when the meaning finally came to me, I stared at him with my eyes huge and mouth agape in pure shock.

**[**I've never met another speaker before.**] **I replied, thunderstruck.

When I made the pact to never speak again when I was a child, I decided to try and learn how to speak American Sign Language. It was highly illogical to speak only through my notebook. After all, what if I lost it or I forgot it? None of which were likely, but still, it was a chance I wasn't willing to take. I'm not too fond of charades, as it is rather undignified, so I wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone without my notebook.

However, learning any language only through a book is always difficult, and it took me many years to get the hang of it. Even now, there are a lot of words I don't know. And, asI have just discovered, I'm not very good at translating other's hands. I had no one to practice with, since no one in Arkham Asylum knew it.

People with disabilities are, after all, an endangered species in Arkham Asylum.

"Close your mouth or you'll catch flies, Miss." the elderly man remarked, jolting me from my thoughts and making my jaw slam shut with an audible _snap_. I felt my face heat up, and I knew that I was probably as red as a tomato. Desperate to change the subject, I decided to ask the questions that were on my mind since the moment I woke up.

**[**Who are you? And where am I?**]** I asked, my hands gesturing wildly.

"My name is Pennyworth. Alfred Pennyworth." he told me, completely serious. Instantly, my face broke into a smile, albeit a shaky one. It wasn't every day, after all, that a British gentleman introduced himself to you in the same manner as James Bond. I had adored those movies when I was a child, and had always wished to be whisked away from Arkham on one of his adventures.

Shaking away the memories, I introduced myself. **[**My name is Jaromira, sir.**] **I signed, spelling out my name carefully. I always had trouble memorizing the alphabet, and it was essential in introducing yourself in sign language.

"Ah, your name is Polish, if memory serves." Alfred replied with a kind smile. I blinked, the only outward display of the pure shock I felt. Not many people knew my name was Polish. Most of them only thought it was an eccentric name for the crazy mute in the corner of the room.

I nodded, my eyes wide. _How did he know that?_

He probably noticed the curious look in my eyes, because he quickly explained. "When I was in the British Guard, my best friend was a nice Polish bloke. He taught me a few words of the language, most of which I cannot repeat in polite conversation," he chuckled. His blue eyes were rather distant, and I could tell that he was probably lost in memories. "He had a daughter named Jaromira, and he always gushed about how beautiful she would be as an adult, how much like her mother she was going to be…" he said, eyes suddenly sad. "She died of **SIDS **before he completed active duty."

Unsure of what to do, I placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. He put one of his hands over mine, patting it gently. "No need to comfort an old soldier, dear. The past is the past, and we can do nothing about it now." Alfred stated.

We sat side by side on the bed for a few minutes, in complete silence. I had no idea what to say, and it seemed that Alfred was content with it, so I just let the silence continue.

Eventually, it was Alfred who broke the silence. "You asked where you were earlier, correct?" he asked. Thinking back, I nodded.

"I never answered that question, and for that I apologize," the British man said, glancing at me. His clear blue eyes were sad and angry, though both emotions were directed at himself. "I let myself get lost in dusty memories." he continued, shaking his head.

I shrugged, offering him a weak smile. After all, it wasn't his fault.

Alfred sent me an equally fragile smile in return, and he felt his hair, wincing as his hand came away coated in sticky, drying orange juice. "Well, Miss Jaromira, we're currently in one of the many guest bedrooms of Wayne Manor."

I gaped silently at him, my mouth hanging open for the second time that day. I probably looked like a dying fish in that moment, but I couldn't really bring myself to care. _How the hell did I end up here?_

Alfred seemed to see the question in my eyes, because he swiftly explained. "I have no idea how Master Wayne found you. All he said to me was that you were the victim of the riot raging in Arkham Asylum."

I tilted my head to the side, my eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. **[**_Master_ Wayne?**] **I asked, putting extra emphasis on the title of master.

Alfred's thin lips pulled into a smile. "I'm his butler." he responded.

I blinked once, then twice, the information seemingly unable to sink in. After a few seconds, my eyes went huge.

_Oh._

He chuckled, clearly amused by my reaction. "Well, judging by the look on your face, I don't think you were expecting that." Alfred said lightly. I nodded dumbly, my brain unable to process this.

_How the heck was this nice, smart, and brave man a mere butler?_

I asked him this without thinking, and winced, expecting him to get angry. Instead, to my surprise, Alfred let out a quiet laugh. "You flatter me, Miss Jaromira, but yes, I am a mere butler."

I blinked, and then nodded slowly, deciding to drop the subject. What Alfred did with his life was no business of mine. Just as before, the next couple of minutes passed in amicable silence. However, this time around, it was me who broke it. **[**What happened earlier?**] **I questioned, my hands shaking slightly as they moved through the still air.

Alfred gave me a quizzical look, and I was quick to elaborate. **[**What happened to me earlier? I was scared of you, but you weren't _you_…you were the Joker…**] **I explained, or tried to. I probably failed, though, because that didn't even make sense to _me_, and I'm the one who said it.

He got the gist of it, however, and Alfred turned towards me, sorrow clear in eyes and in the lines of his face. In that moment, he looked more like a tired old man than I had ever seen him.

"Whatever drug the Joker gave you is still in your system." he stated.

**[**Shouldn't the effects fade by now?**] **I asked, regarding him with a puzzled glance.

"Yes, they should be." he replied with a troubled sigh.

I stared at my hands, and flinched as the memory of their mutilation flashed through my mind. I shivered, and hid them beneath my thighs. Alfred sent me a questioning look, but said nothing.

_It should be impossible for…whatever drug he gave me to have lasted so long…_

At the thought, I looked over at Alfred, silently begging for any details he could share with me.

"We took a few samples of your blood while you were unconscious, and found that the drug he gave you is incredibly resilient to the body's natural defenses." he explained, "We're not sure why."

Honestly, I didn't bother asking him what he meant by 'we'. I had the strangest feeling that I already knew the answer to that question.

But was Bruce really so powerful as to be able to get an expensive blood test done on someone who, by all accounts, was a fugitive of Arkham? The thought chilled me to the bone, and I hoped beyond hope that he wouldn't get any bad ideas. Who knows what Bruce Wayne could do, with his obviously far-reaching influence?

"Miss Jaromira? Are you alright?" Alfred questioned, eyebrows furrowed in concern. My head jerked up, startled. I immediately regretted that action, however, as it caused my momentarily forgotten headache to come back with a vengeance. As I gripped my head, my eyes scrunching shut as I fought back tears of pain.

_Damn, my head._

I felt Alfred's weight leave the bed, and his footsteps echoed painfully through my skull as he walked out the door. I peeked an eye open, then slammed it shut once more as the suddenly bright light attacked my retina.

I curled up into a ball on my side, and burrowed my head beneath the thick comforter with a stifled moan.

I snuggled further into the bed sheets, trying to take in the soothing scent of laundry detergent. I was hoping it would somehow convince Satan to stop torturing me with the intense migraine (and/or stop my self-pitying sniffles). Of course, that didn't happen._ Thanks, Satan._

…_Wait, where did _that _come from? I'm not even religious!_

The thought made me release a sigh. Yep, the Joker's drug was still affecting me. I hadn't thought about anything to do with religion since I was a kid.

Arkham Asylum tends to beat things like that out of you at an early age.

Footsteps began approaching me, and I fought back the urge to flinch back as they came close enough to put something on the nightstand, before I heard them turn around and walk out once more. Before they left, I peeked out of my nest of blankets to see that it was Alfred. I smiled through my pain as I saw he left a glass of cool water and two aspirin pills for me.

I was quick to take them, and knowing that they would take a while to kick in, I tightened the blankets around me and fell asleep rather quickly.

Sleep did nothing to help the nightmares, though.

* * *

**That's the end of this chapter! Phew, my longest chapter yet. Hope y'all enjoyed it. **

**Review your thoughts. I want feedback on whether or not the way I wrote Alfred is in-character for him, the way I wrote the panic attack/hallucination (Never had either, so I need help to see if I wrote it accurately!), and whether or not you guys liked the fact that she speaks ASL. I figured it would be logical for her to know how to use it, though I did mention several times throughout that she's not an expert.**

**Have a wonderful day/night! :)**


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